Night
by Loca Bambina
Summary: Snow is cold, but the night is colder. Oneshot.


A/N: Oneshot. Somewhat inspired by Brat-Child3's **Eric's Song**.

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.

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Night

He slides into his baby blue PJ's, the ones Grammy got him for Christmas. They're silky and soft and usually make him feel calm and relaxed, but tonight they do nothing for him. He knows relaxation will come.

He looks out the window, where, through the darkness, snow is softly falling, as it has always fallen here, and will always fall. When he was a little kid he loved snow, loved to catch icy white flakes on his tongue, loved to make snow angels and big jolly snowmen and snow forts for snowball fights. Back then, when he was so happy, when his only worry was whether his favorite TV show was going to be on that day, when he was so bright and carefree, snow was bliss. Now it is just a reminder of how cold the world really is.

Outside, even though it is dark and cold and getting hard to see, he can make out four figures laughing and throwing snowballs at each other, unaware of him, up there all alone, watching them through the window. They're too tall to be children, he decides, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness outside he realizes they're teenage boys, probably about his age. He watches them play and fight until the biggest one of the group looks up. Their eyes meet for an instant, and suddenly everything is as bright as day. The one inside gasps and pulls down the blinds, but not before the others look up and recognize his startled face, his eyes as big and scared as a hunted deer.

He does not look back outside the window. He doesn't see the fat one laugh or the pale one silence him with a stare. He doesn't hear the solemn, sorry words of the black-haired boy, or the comforting ones uttered softly through a thick orange coat. To him, they are incapable of kindness. He does not know that _they_ know what he will do tonight, and that they are sorry.

He turns back to his perfectly neat room. He has never ever in his life let it get messy; he is too afraid of what his parents would do to him if it was ever anything but completely spotless. But now it doesn't matter what they think – if they don't like it, well, then, they can just go to heck.

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to mess up the room. He knocks the books and papers off his desk, smiling bitterly as they crash to the floor. He grabs a Sky Blue marker out of his trusty Crayola 24-pack and doodles a picture of himself on the pristine white wall. He adds hair with the Sunshine Yellow marker and lips with Racecar Red, then reaches for Lime Green. Before he knows it, another doodle-person has materialized next to himself. He studies this person with his head cocked to one side, then takes Midnight Black and draws a big, bold X through the boy's ushanka, laughing an empty, sour laugh as he scribbles over the bright eyes.

He repeats the process again and again: Stan, cross out, Cartman, cross out, Kenny, Tweek, Token, Craig, Mom, Dad, cross out, cross out, cross out…The black marker runs out just as he's about to draw Wendy, and he curses it under his breath, chucking it at the wall.

The markers are left scattered on the floor as he moves on to the shelves. Stuffed animal after stuffed animal gets thrown to the ground, some losing an ear, an eye, an arm in the process. He finds a jar of paint in an old art set in his closet and splashes it across the carpet. He knows he must remain quiet, however; Mom and Dad cannot come upstairs just yet…

The next five minutes are spent ripping, wrecking, and ruining every garment in his closet. He leaves the shredded clothes strewn across the floor and looks around the room to see if he missed anything.

Satisfied, he slips into the adjoining bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. He scans the various pill bottles, looking for the perfect one…

Minutes later, he tosses the empty bottle in the trash, exits the bathroom and trudges back over to the bed. There is one stuffed animal left, a little brown bear, his favorite… he hugs it to his chest, takes one long last look around his perfect, messy room, slips under the covers, and falls asleep.

Outside, the snow continues to fall. Tomorrow, when the town wakes up, it will still be falling. Tomorrow, when the snow falls again, the sun will be shining. For everyone else, tomorrow will be another beautiful day. For him, tomorrow will be a beautiful night…


End file.
